


I Was a Prayer

by LelithSugar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, BDSM, Blasphemy, Breathplay, Consensual Kink, Consensual Thramsay, Drowned God bothering, Drowning, Fluff and Smut, Greyjoy dunking, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Ramsay is his own warning, Religious Guilt, Roleplay, Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, if you think this has a happy ending... it does well done you, seriously the ending of this is pure schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 16:51:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10745862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: Theon's suddenly hot under his skin in a way that has nothing to do with Ramsay fucking him, or even the threat of being drowned whilst he's at it. He can't remember the last time he prayed.He can – he begs for favour and pleads for mercy and kneels and worships on a regular basis. He just can't remember the last time actual gods were involved.





	I Was a Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Bloodied Up consensual!Thramsayverse, in which Ramsay and Theon are in a consensual and loving (albeit BDSM themed) relationship and most of the version we see in Game of Thrones is the result of rumours they've encouraged to circulate so they can hide in plain sight, pair of pervs that they are. If you're happy to accept my ridiculous premise for happy consensual kink porn at face value than there it is, but there is more depth and explanation given in the other stories in the series than this one. I'm not saying it's any less ridiculous, but it's been given a hell of a lot of thought.
> 
> A warning here for religious fuckwithery, which in Theon's case is going to mean mock and near-drowning, which I couldn't quite decide whether constituted a graphic depiction of violence or not. Consider yourself warned here for both.
> 
> Damn you season four and your softcore porn lighting.

Theon does, in fact, reek to high heaven. Ramsay's lilting call to a hot bath follows a long day of other, less palatable but more exciting demands that have left him in this state in the first place, and he couldn't care less whether he's being tempted into another trap: he can't possibly feel any more wonderfully, gleefully fucking disgusting than he does. He can just about smell camomile and fennel, and Ramsay's voice sends a weary shudder up his back. He'll take a gamble on the bath.

They've been playing for hours, hard, dirty and brutal. In truth they've not really broken from their game for longer, perhaps days; each new whim just about taking long enough to prepare and execute for desire and ability to catch up. Not only is Theon covered in Ramsay - in blood, in the taste of him, the smell of him, in just about every way that bears thinking about - but the hot water will be good for the fresh cuts and the aching muscles, and some time to relax together will be nice for both of them now they're sated, or at least running out of steam.

Of course, Ramsay's not about to let Theon wash _and_ maintain a sense of personal space both – why should he have any? He's Ramsay's, head to toe – and pushes him into a cold stone wall before he can get to the tub, holding Theon's hands above his head to get right into his neck and breathe him in.

“You fucking stink.”

“Well, whose fault is that?” He's safe to chat back, the mood is broken and that's not how Ramsay would tease him in company anyway: he's not about to start cataloguing all the things Theon smells of this time and why he repulses him. Ramsay knows exactly what each smell is, and how it came to be on him - he was there - And he loves it: loves to bury his face into the bends and pits and creases of Theon's body and breathe him in, what he's done to him just lately; the fear, the come, the dirt and the sweat and the blood. The sniffing turns quickly to biting kisses: rough mouthfuls of Theon's neck that will be raising bruises if there's any skin there that doesn't have a mark on it already.

Theon whines, although whether that's in frustration or arousal, he'd be hard pushed to say. But eventually Ramsay relinquishes his hold on him and Theon steps into the tub, wobbling only a little as he sits down in the water and lies back. Whip gouges on his back smart so suddenly that he almost leaps back out again but finds he doesn't have the strength; just hisses and closes his eyes.

He's not sure whether he expects Ramsay to join him straight away, but it's no real surprise when he opts to sit on the edge of the bath instead, especially given that he's still mostly dressed. Even with his eyes closed, Theon can feel Ramsay looking at his body through the water, and if it excites him now, after the couple of days they've had then it must be because of the mess he's made of it. He feels exposed, somehow, after all this, and it makes him shiver.

They're warmly silent whilst Ramsay mops at Theon with a rolled cloth, softly cleaning away blood and making sure none of his wounds need further dressing, and it's familiar enough that Theon relaxes in the warmth and enjoys the glide of the sopping cloth over his skin, the less-than-gentle presses of Ramsay's fingers into his jaw and biceps as he moves him around. He doesn't mind at all. Still, there's something in the hot, posessive confidence of Ramsay's hands that tells Theon he was mistaken to think the bloodlust has burned out of him and he's not sure exactly what prompted this most recent stint of relentless, aggressive filth, but he's not complaining. Well, parts of him are complaining, splitting and bleeding, grinding with strains when he moves but other parts of him are distinctly more appreciative of the things Ramsay does to him.

It's not long before Ramsay's hands start wandering, but Theon puts off opening his eyes to see how he'll be looking at him. Self consciousness has always made Theon hard, and Ramsay's gaze always feels as though it could strip his skin right off, but he might have a good few minutes to rest before he has to acknowledge that the mood is changing again.

Ramsay reaches down into the water but bypasses Theon's stiffening prick and shoves his hand straight between Theon's legs, groping unceremoniously up at his hole. Theon knows better than to resist and obediently shifts his legs apart to the uncomfortable probing of Ramsay's fingers. Somehow the hot bath doesn't make it feel any less dry and his body pulls shut despite him, fighting against the water and Ramsay's teasing touches. He knows he'll be wanted to move, but he stays still and silent and waits to be asked. Or told. Ramsay grumbles in his throat and prods at him, wriggling the tip of his finger inside but it obviously won't do. When he withdraws his hand he pinches Theon's thigh – sheer spite from the frustration – and thumps the side of the bath with his palm.

“Come on, out with you. You're not getting away with it that easily.”

“Getting away with-!” Theon is vaguely, tiredly incredulous, but Ramsay's eyes are stony serious, locked to his, and he finds himself complying, knees weak.

Ramsay doesn't pretend he's not admiring the sight of the water running down Theon's slim, strong legs to pool unevenly on the flat stone floor, but he does so in silence. He waits patiently for Theon to turn to face him - wet, warm and shimmering, head obediently dipped but eyes watchful - before turning his palm up to give the signal for what he wants and without question, Theon kneels and bends forwards over the edge of the bath, presenting himself.

It's a satisfying sort of shame that licks at him, and in truth he has no idea what to brace himself for, but at least he's clean, and the smell of his own fevered sweat is no longer putting him off. That much is evident in the lift of his cock to full hardness, interest piqued by being on display for Ramsay to do what he likes to, and how imminent whatever that might be seems as Ramsay slowly raises from his imperious perch on the lip of the tub to walk behind him.

If he feels vulnerable, nude and soaking against the dry linnen and wool of Ramsay still mostly dressed, it's nothing on how he feels when Ramsay yanks his legs apart and starts rubbing oil onto him – into him – but he doesn't resist at all. Just folds his arms on the edge of the tub and rests forward on them, finding a comfortable position to allow Ramsay proper access to his body, just how he's been taught.

Ramsay breaches him with one finger, oiled and gentle but decisive, upped to two when he takes it easily, and a third so quickly that Theon suspects he might be going for a fourth or headed for something bigger but it turns out he's just eager to get his cock in him again with as little preamble as he can get away with, and once he does and Theon's stretched nicely around it Ramsay seems to settle, no real urgency to the way he starts to roll his hips.

Already, arousal curls and knots around Theon's insides like seaweed. The hot water has soothed some of the immediate discomfort out of his body, leaving the deep ache of his bruises; the bright, agonosing sting of freshly cleaned cuts; the grind of the edge of the wooden tub in a band across his chest that he already has the feeling is going to be what tips him over when he's ready to come. He can picture the mark it will leave, feel the burn of the stares as Ramsay inevitably finds an excuse to make him take his shirt off and show it, knows how he'll thrill at watching people trying to guess how it got there.

The angle is good for Theon and he's surprised by how easy it is, how quickly his body is picked up on the tide of pleasure without discomfort, and it floods him with fiery shame to think it's because he's loosened from the use, that Ramsay is shaping him to fit his purpose. Ramsay's thrusts are controlled, calm, and as well they should be: he's already had Theon twice since he returned from visiting his father at around noon and locked the doors, and he's not really left him alone for any notable period of time in days. Moreover Ramsay seems to be in the mood for it just like this... taking Theon however and whenever he wants without expecting or receiving any resistance or complaint. The violence is incidental, just like Theon's pleasure: Ramsay simply helps himself to what is his, pretends he's making no effort to see that Theon is enjoying himself but Theon knows better and he appreciates both the consideration and the posturing that that isn't what he's doing at all, that he's just using him and doesn't care whether Theon gets off or not. The last time, he left him wanting, and that will have been deliberate, to make him desperate by the time they got to this... whatever 'this' is about to turn into. It worked.

Ramsay goes still, quiet: he's thinking, and though the thought reminds Theon of an old joke the maester at Winterfell used to make. Ramsay thinking is definitely going to hurt someone. He runs his hands over Theon's body, catching on scars and fresh swelling, sending little prickles of desire skittering out. Theon sighs and arches into the stroke of Ramsay's palm up his back, gasping as that hand takes up a grip in the back of his hair.

Without warning, Ramsay jerks his hips forwards, pushes Theon over the edge of the bath and plunges his head under water.

Theon flails and yells out the water that pours down his throat as a cloud of bubbles, but Ramsay holds him down, safely behind the reach of his grasping and kicking and stronger, much stronger than Theon in a fair fight, let alone with Theon worn out and on all fours with Ramsay's cock in him, unable to breathe. His ears ring in sudden silence; bubbles tickle at his face and the world slows to nothing but the points where their bodies meet and the burning darkness of the water.

After a second or two of mad scrambling, Theon gathers his wits and stops trying to move, holds what's left of his breath and starts to wonder what this game is. He's safe, even if the frantic pounding of his heart tries to tell him otherwise, and what's more the sudden rush of panic through his body has only magnified his enjoyment of the sex. Is this for him? He tenses and gives a wriggle, not quite struggling yet, to indicate he's had enough.

When he's allowed up for air he still gives Ramsay a sulky, sodden look over his shoulder despite the flush to his cheeks and the urgent response of his cock. It's ruined when he has to screw his eyes shut against the water running down from his hair.

“You might have fucking warned me to take a breath first!”

“Didn't think you could drown a Greyjoy.” Ramsay says it casually, as if it were of no consequence to him if he could, and then gives a considered smile, all teeth. “Anyway, isn't this supposed to be your lot's sort of thing? What's all that about _rising_ again, _harder_ and stronger?”

Theon glares at him, dripping. “You know very well what it is.”

“Mmm,” Ramsay agrees thoughtfully, dangerously, stroking his fingers one by one up the underneath of Theon's cock.

Theon doesn't like where this is going. Really doesn't like the fact that the flush of blood to his face and downwards simultaneously isn't at all deterred by Ramsay's suspicious choice of conversation topic, and he'd point out it's not really the ideal time to bring up religious doctrine but it's not as if Ramsay won't be well aware of that.

Theon's suddenly hot under his skin in a way that has nothing to do with Ramsay fucking him, or even the threat of being drowned whilst he's at it. He can't remember the last time he prayed.

He can – he begs for favour and pleads for mercy and kneels and worships on a regular basis. He just can't remember the last time actual gods were involved.

“Not the first time you've done this, is it?”

Of course it isn't, it's not even the first time today, but... oh. He's not referring to how he's got his hips pressed flush to Theon's backside with him speared so beautifully on his prick, but to how he's holding his face down again so the tip of his nose is in the water, and Theon's stomach flips at the abrupt reality of where Ramsay's headed. He doesn't know whether to tell him that he was never fully drowned, that he suspected his father didn't think he was worth the ceremony... but he was anointed before he sailed his first – his only - ship and this hardly seems an appropriate time to talk about it. Besides, Ramsay's still rocking softly into him and Theon knows how it feels when his breath is taken from him whilst he's fucked, and he doubts being forced over the side of the tub into the water is going to prove any less amazing than Ramsay's arm across his throat. He tells himself it doesn't have to be about the ritual, it's up to him what he pictures, and he already knows its a lie.

But Ramsay's got no plans to let him off that easily anyway. He thrusts Theon's head down into the water, holds it there for no more than a count of three and yanks him out by the hair, spluttering and dripping. Pulls him right back onto his cock, but the jolt of heat is secondary now to the rush to Theon's head, the guilt needling in his guts.

“Come on.” Ramsay gives him a fierce little shake. “You know how this goes better than I do.”

He can't. He won't do this.

Ramsay pushes him back down and in by his neck when he's not quick enough, and the water isn't such a shock this time. Theon at least remembers to close his eyes as he goes under again and the room fades to the rushing of water in his ears. It's obvious what Ramsay wants now, and he hates himself for even considering playing along, but the combination of lightheaded, dizzy high and a good fuck isn't one he can pass up lightly.

No. It's too low, even for him.

Theon's never been a particularly religious man, never developed any deeper understanding of the Drowned God than an appreciation of the fact he seemed far less boring than a great many of the others, but he knows that this is a sacred, untouchable thing, and he shouldn't let Ramsay defile it.

That's what he's going to tell Ramsay, as soon as he's lifted up and can breathe again: he'll start with 'ravens' so that it's obvious that this isn't up for discussion and then he'll explain why it's wrong and he can't disgrace his faith like this.

Only, what comes out of his mouth, after a dribble of bathwater, is “What is dead may never die.”

Fuck.

In silence, Theon knows how Ramsay is smiling without even risking a glance back over his shoulder: he's seen that face many, many times and most of them have ended in blood and screaming. The space at the top of his nose burns and tingles, making his head ache to go along with the reeling of his mind, and the wait is awful. Ramsay isn't only going to make Theon do this – he's going to make him think about it. He's going to make him love every horrible second. The bastard.

Ramsay squares his shoulders and draws up to project his voice, to the extent that he can manage whilst keeping his grip on the back of Theon's neck. He begins.

“Drowned God. Let Theon...Oh no, this in't right.” But there's no spontinaeity in his voice: he's measured every second of this, although that could have been done a moment or a month ago, Theon can never quite tell. “You've got to do these things properly,” he annouces to Theon in almost a stage whisper before suddenly withdrawing, leaving him empty, desperate and open whilst he crosses the room briefly and then returns to the other side of the bath.

Ramsay stands deliberately in Theon's eyeline, sleeves turned up to his elbows and greased cock poking obscenely from the slack closure of his breeches, whilst he scoops a handful of salt from a wooden box and lets it slide from his palm into the water. Theon's eyes fix on the crystals sinking into the dark and he keeps as still as he can manage whilst Ramsay gets back into position behind him; the quick thrust of his cock sliding back into Theon is less daunting that the hand finding its place on the nape of his neck, the tips of Ramsay's fingers digging through his wet hair to press hard on his skull. Theon's distracted, still staring at the ripples in the water and he knows it won't be enough to taste when Ramsay pushes him in again, but the sincerity of wasting salt on consecrating the water to do this to him sears so hot through Theon that it's like being stabbed.

Ramsay's hand presses him down so close that Theon has to turn his face to keep breathing whilst Ramsay gets comfortable, composes himself for what he's about to do. Theon already knows the words he intends to begin with, which tell him everything wishes he didn't know about where this is headed. It's wrong, and it's awful... and things that are wrong and awful have always gone straight to Theon's prick.

“Let Theon, my servant, be born again from the sea. Again. Bless him with... what are we supposed to be blessing you with?”

Theon's breath is ragged, his voice quietly desperate and bubbling the water where Ramsay's only just pulled him up to answer him. “Salt, stone and steel.”

 “Steel? Shouldn't it be iron? Are you sure?”  
  
“Yes I'm fucking sure.”

Ramsay makes a 'hmm' sound of sceptical agreement which is all the warning Theon needs to gulp a breath in before he's dunked back into the water, only this time Ramsay releases the pressure of the push a little so that Theon can pull back. He doesn't understand the significance of this until his ears are above the surface - the wide silence of the stone walled room is harsh and sudden after the rush of submersion - but the rest of his face stays under. He can listen without breathing, and it's almost welcome to cool the burning of his cheeks. This is disgusting. He's so hard.

“Bless him with salt. Bless him with stone. Bless him with steel.”

Ramsay fumbles around and gives his cock a squeeze on 'steel', and how dare he make the pride of their heritage feel like cheap bar room humour, but Theon finds to his unsurprised dismay that his prick does not share his conscience. It throbs eagerly in Ramsay's hand.

“Let the old Theon Greyjoy drown. Let his lungs fill with sea water, let the fish scales wash from his eyes.”

 _It's supposed to be 'let the fish eat the scales from his eyes,'_ thinks Theon, and when you're folded double being fucked in the arse by a man who's trying to drown you in a bathtub and what you're bothered by is that he's bastardising your prayers _wrong_ , you know you are truly lost. In truth, Theon knows he's been lost to most causes for a long time. He's losing the will to care. His head is spinning already, Ramsay's thrusts into him feel like completion, his hand around his cock feels like mercy even whilst tries to hate himself for enjoying it or even for letting Ramsay debase him like this, but he knows he's too much of a slut to stop him.

“Listen to the waves, Theon. Listen to the God. “ One moment, Ramsay is fairy booming, revelling in the melodrama and then he's hissing into the shell of Theon's ear. “He is speaking to you, and he says you shall have no lord but me.”

Theon tries to block Ramsay's voice from his mind whilst he rations his breath. It's not easy with Ramsay continuing to rock into his arse at his own steady pace whilst he recites. The words aren't changed enough that he can pretend this is anything but a full drowning rite, and he shouldn't let Ramsay claim it.... but then, he shouldn't ever have let Ramsay claim _him_ , if he meant to keep to his god's ways, and he can't pretend he doesn't ask for that. He's a whore, another man's whore, and a willing one; he can't kid himself that the proud war-god of the seas would look kindly on one of his followers revelling in the things Theon loves, any more than he's going to like his name being dragged into their perversion and used in vain to play such filthy games.

_Drowned God, but it feels good..._

Theon shouldn't even be thinking about the god when he's... doing this, and for all his usual lack of shame he finds he struggles to even think the word 'fucking' now. Not because it's forbidden: they're encouraged to rape and reave and claim whatever they decide they have a right to... but that's not what this is. An Ironborn man shouldn't be fucked. Shouldn't be bent over and spread open and owned and taken and loving every borderline-painful thrust like this; every aggressive, dominant grab at his prone body; every stroke of another man's hard, throbbing prick into the yeilding softness of his arse. Definitely shouldn't want it this much. Shouldn't let another man play with his life like this to get him off – Theon doesn't know how much longer he can hold his breath for. He's a disgrace to his faith, the way he's so keenly submitted himself to be all the things he should die rather than suffer; to be Ramsay's slave, his thrall... even the words make him break a guilty sweat under Ramsay's hand on the back of his neck.

Or that could be the panic. For a moment he'd relaxed, but this is far longer than the last time he held him in and Theon's eyes ache from being so tightly closed, stinging at the corners from the water that got in them the first time. And he needs air. He becomes dimly aware of Ramsay having paused, as if for an answer, and suddenly he's absolved of responsibility because if he says no to this now perhaps he won't be coming out at all, or Ramsay might stop fucking him, which could be worse, so he nods his head and Ramsay yanks him out.

Water streams from Theon's nose, slimy and hot, and he hauls in a chestful of air whilst Ramsay shoves at him.

“Will you?” His voice is impatient and leaves no room for argument.

“Yes!” Theon has no idea what he's just promised to do, and then he's under water again. It seems ridiculous, somehow, that he's a mere inch into the water but still in just as much danger as he'd be so much further down, with Ramsay's hand on his head. Plenty of worthy Ironborn have been drowned just like this by the Drowned God's holy men and Theon is a shame to all of them. He's a shame to his family name, a disappointment to his father and the men who were supposed to follow him and obey his rule... if only they could see him now, captive-turned-whore, too weak and desperate to resist as the man he subjects himself to takes him on his knees like an animal, like a bitch in heat.

“Let the sea wash your follies and your vanities away. Let the waves wash away your titles, your birth rights. You exist to please me. You will serve me with every inch of your body.”

Theon shudders, which ends in his cock giving an involuntary twitch in Ramsay's hand and Theon knows his body serves Ramsay whether he agrees now or not.

 “Spend every day showing me how grateful you are for my mercy, for my protection. For my generosity, for my cock.” Theon winces, screws his face up as though that will stop this happening even whilst he reels with sudden bliss as Ramsay punctuates his point with a couple of good hard thrusts. He wants to protest, to save himself and say it's all a lie out loud but if he opens his mouth he'll only get it flooded with water, and the only bits of his body that can answer for him are screaming for more. He _does_ want Ramsay's cock, want to please him and serve him just like he knows he shouldn't want to. No good Ironborn should be willing to take this, It's against everything they stand for and yet here Theon is, forsaking gods and lands and family because he'll do anything if it just means he'll get fucked good and hard the way he needs it, and used and hurt along the way... the shifting of the water in the tub slaps agains his skin and the wet wood with each jab of Ramsay's hips, echoing the taunting in his head, _slut slut slut slut...._

Again, he exhausts the air he's breathed in and his head starts to swim, narrowing his awareness down to the grind of the wood into his chest, the vault of his stomach every time Ramsay surges against the right spot. Despite the humiliation and the fear – really, who does he think he's fooling – the pleasure is building in his body, he can feel Ramsay's hand slipping on his cock where it's dripping although the rest of him below the shoulders has dried and it's pulling at the pain in his chest for his attention. It's not just the sharp edge of the planks of the tub on his sturnum: his muscles are stitching and cramping from being bent double at such a sharp angle and he couldn't breathe even if his head wasn't under the water. _I can't breathe._

Theon fights the burning in his lungs, deliberately overpowering the reflexes; tells himself It's just like when Ramsay chokes him with his hands, and he likes that plenty. _I like that,_ and it hits him then how utterly delusional he is if he thinks the blasphemy will be the first perversion he has to answer for when he's called to account. It's a drop in the vast, damned ocean.

Ramsay hauls him out of the water by his hair, just in time, and pulls him back hard onto his cock to growl in his ear.

“What are your words, Greyjoy?”

Theon gasps. “My... what?” His word is 'ravens'. Is Ramsay checking that he hasn't forgotten that he can stop this? He doesn't want to stop.

Ramsay gives him a shove back towards the water.

“The words of your house. Come on.”

“We -” He coughs out the bubble that's strangling his throat. “We do not sow.”

“You don't? Hmm.” There's a horrid, frozen sweetness to Ramsay's voice that couples threateningly with the sudden stillness of his hands, one on the back of Theon's head, one squeezing his prick, and that's the one that starts to move again. “Then what becomes of your seed?” Ramsay is clearly enoying his own ridiculousness, overpronoucing each jarring word and soaking up Theon's discomfort. “You're going to give it to me, in tribute. A token of your love for me.”

Theon should scoff at him and resist but instead he nods weakly and quickly, but that's not good enough. Ramsay pinches his nails into the nape of Theon's neck and grinds his cock as deep as it will go.

“Do you offer it?”

Theon spits before he can speak. “Gladly, my lord.”

He thinks Ramsay might insist on waiting for him to do so physically, but back in he goes, face down under the water for a few more thrusts of Ramsay's hips, some unspecific murmuring in which Theon makes out the words “Pyke” and “crown” but Ramsay has got carried away and pushed him in too far to hear, his head right under so that his hair floats away from him and he can feel even Ramsay's hand on his neck must be under the surface. He's losing control, his hips pounding now and Theon almost wants him to keep him there whilst he finishes, for Ramsay to take what is his and have his orgasm at all costs and to see if Theon really will survive being drowned; if the God will take one look at his failure of a follower and send him straight back. Theon was lost to the Drowned God long before this: they all knew he was a weakling, he's a disappointment, an invert, a freak, a pervert, and _that's why Ramsay loves him._ It's why he's burning up with bliss right now as Ramsay gropes at his body and fucks him in the arse, and not freezing and half dead on some wretched fucking boat somewhere.

He'll be damned for this, he's certain. Damned if he cares, at this point.

Ramsay's voice cuts through the wet ringing in Theon's ears and the pleasure coursing through his body, clear even though it's grating with effort now. “Let the old Theon Greyjoy drown. Let him be reborn as my loyal Theon.”

Theon's heart flutters, squeezes, and he knows that's not the effort of holding his breath. No god, drowned or otherwise, was ever particularly kind to him, but if it weren't for Ramsay he might be far better acquainted with them by now, not that he believes in any afterlife... no hell to be sent to for this. No heaven but the dumb ecstacy Ramsay makes him feel, the dizzying peaks of pleasure, the throbbing rush of perfect pain. This. This understanding of the deep and twisted things that sate him in a way nothing else ever has.

Because he's never been able to help it, and now his deviance is rewarded rather than mocked, is desired and useful and Ramsay wants this, wants him to disgrace his upbringing and give himself up to who he really is.

“Swear before your god that you will submit to me. That you will take what you're given and give me whatever I ask for.”

His god won't want to hear that. He'll never accept an Ironborn prince who's let a lowborn bastard fuck him. Not just allowed him to fuck him, but begged for it; begged for him to beat him near senseless first; poured his wine and cleaned his boots and sucked his cock, from his knees like a whore... Let him fuck him and pretend he was blessing him in the sea, in the sight of his god and his ancestors, mocking every single facet of what Theon should be and ramming all the things he isn't right home whilst he makes him gasp and shudder and struggle not to come down the side of the bathtub _because he hasn't been given permission._

“Do you swear it?”

He must do this. Must give up who he used to be completely and commit to serving only Ramsay. Isn't that what he wanted anyway?

Isn't that exactly what he's already done?

Theon nods hard enough to be sure it's visible, distinct against the shuddering of his body, if only by his hair dragging and waving in the water. He gives in and lets his lungs heave against themselves, his ribcage squeezing and flexing, desperately trying to force his mouth to open and gasp in what will only be water, and strangely that's a peaceful thing. Just as his consciousness starts to fade out, black around the edges of red, Theon finds himself flying backwards, flinging a spray of water up with him and heaving in gasps of air that he can't get out as an oath soon enough.

“I swear it!”

His pulse pounds in his head and he falls back against Ramsay's chest, dizzy and breathless.

Ramsay's lips are dry against the dripping skin under Theon's ear, his hand quick and slippery on Theon's cock. “Show me your devotion. Give me what I asked of you.”

Ramsay is benevolent. Theon need only relax into the hands on him and oblige whilst heady air and bliss floods his body, shame and humiliation as he lays naked and soaked and wretched in Ramsay's lap, his body clenching around Ramsay's cock as his toes curl and the welt across his chest sears with just the right sort of pain.  Ramsay bites him hard, a clear mark of the fact Theon belongs to him now, and that hurts and it feels so good and his voice is a distant growl as Theon is coming.

“What is dead may never die.”

Theon is silent except for one open mouthed sob of relief as his back bows and his cock spasms and Ramsay gets what he wanted: Theon's seed pulsing over his hand, freely given.  He's incapable of echoing the words back as he should, but then, it takes him those precious few moments to even start to recover his breath.  He'll be forgiven. 

Satisfied with the shaking wreck he's made of his newly dedicated subject, Ramsay lifts Theon easily from his body – huffing involuntarily as he pulls himself from him - and tips him to kneel on the floor again. Stands, but doesn't step away, turning around him so closely that his shins are flush against Theon's thighs, his hand on his cock barely a span from Theon's face even when he grabs at Theon's sodden hair and pulls to tilt his head up.

 “What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger.”

To give Ramsay due credit, either his timing or his self control is impeccable. Theon doesn't have to wait or guess what's about to happen, or open his eyes to know the victorious smirk that twists at Ramsay's face as he allows his pleasure to catch up with him: just holds still and remembers his first annointing, and listens to Ramsay grunt through gritted teeth as his come drips in long stripes onto Theon's upturned face.

Theon remembers how he felt then: frightened, stupid, desperate to prove worth he already knew he didn't have; an imposter pretending to be a character he didn't even understand. And here he kneels at Ramsay's feet, being asked for nothing he doesn't want to give, being promised what makes him happier than all the glory and promise of his birthright ever could.

With his eyes still closed, Theon licks the salt from his lips, and smiles.

 

 ***

 

Theon lays slumped against the hard, studded wood of the bath tub and lets Ramsay clean him once again with a cloth whilst the water cools.

Ramsay dabs thoughtfully. “I do worry about you being a fish out of water, stuck up here." It's probably all there'll be of an explanation: it's certainly not intended as an apology. "Shall I concoct an excuse to drag you down to the beach? Or we could ride out to Kraken Bay? It's probably the closest I can get you to Pyke, but you'd be able to see the sea, feel the salt breeze in your hair?”

“I hate the fucking sea.”

 “You hate...” Ramsay looks at him as though he's sprouted tentacles.

 Theon looks him square in the eyes, as though trying to reason with an animal or a slightly slow child. “...the fucking sea. Yes.”

 “...The sea.” Ramsay sits down next to him heavily, as though the effort of processing this news is too much for him standing. It may just be that he's exhausted.

“Miserable, freezing horror. And the people on it are miserable, freezing and horrible. And I'll not have a word of this horseshit about it being in my blood.”

“But it is!”

Theon scoffs and goes to stand, drastically overestimating the strength in his legs and wobbling back to his arse on the wet stone floor. Still, he shoves Ramsay's hands away and reaches behind him for the skin of wine. The cup is slightly further from his reach, so he thinks he'll be forgiven for not using it. He's still shaking.

“So if we left you in a mill would you miraculously take to that? You couldn't grind corn if your life depended on it. “ He pulls the stopper from the skin with his teeth. “You don't have the patience. And I'm a piss-poor sailor.”

Ramsay has no basis on which to disagree, and it's not the least of it. “You are, in all probability, the worst Ironborn there has ever been. How do you feel about that?”

“A bit sore,” muses Theon, not at all unhappily. “Sleepy. Otherwise never better. All that crowns and glory stuff, though... I did start to worry you were signing me up to the Night's Watch.”

Ramsay snorts. “Black isn't your colour, sweetling.”

“And yet, fathering children, taking a wife and holding lands are looking less and less likely. Or appealing.”

“You want to do this one too?” Ramsay rolls his eyes. “I'm not fucking you again, you bloody disgusting whore. I haven't got the strength.” He kisses him on the forehead. “What's it after that? Something about walls and swords in the dark?”

“I'm not bad at handling a sword in the dark.”

“I dare say. So are you going to defend the realms of men from...” He's forgotten which are the real words and which are the parodies that float around from time to time. “From wights and rabid snow hares and whatever the fuck else they've got up there?”

Theon takes another swig of wine, and hands the skin over, coughing. “Fuck the realms of men. I'd pick off any that came for you though.”

Ramsay nods. “What about pledging your life and your honour - hah! Like the latter will do me any good. Theon Greyjoy's honour. Might as well ask you to pledge me your pet dragon whilst you're at it. “ He's chuckling at himself and Theon can't bring himself to be put out. It doesn't matter now. Ramsay looks at him softly. “Your life and your love, then?”

Theon grins and bows his head. “For this night, and all the nights to come.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, feedback and prompts for more always welcomed! Thank you for reading.


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